


Acquiesce

by yeaka



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Adultery, Blow Jobs, Ficlet, M/M, Oral Sex, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:32:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas goes the distance to secure his position.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acquiesce

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I suppose this is set back when Bates was in prison and Thomas was Robert’s valet? This isn’t historically accurate or properly British.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Downton Abbey or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He has so many different titles used in so many different ways that Thomas has never once thought of him as _Robert Crawley._ It doesn’t matter. Even when Thomas is dressing him, as intimate as a plutonic relationship could ever be, he’s still _Lord Grantham._ The title rings in Thomas’ ears as he straightens out the fabric along Lord Grantham’s shoulders, musing through the clamour how he’s going to be better than Bates even though he already so clearly _is_.

He didn’t save Lord Grantham in the war. But that can’t be everything. He’s younger, stronger, faster, more able, clever, and better looking than Bates. Than every other man in this house. The only thing other than _that one thing_ that keeps him down is being lowborn, but Lord Grantham doesn’t seem to care much for those things, not at the core of it. Even if he should. So really, Thomas should be set for life, and it’s stomach-churning that he _isn’t_.

He’s done so many other not-so-very-good things to stop there, though. He used to dream of being a butler, but now he knows he’ll have to fight just to stay a valet. Thomas is willing to fight, and he’ll fight dirty.

And that’s why he moves from Lord Grantham’s shoulders to cufflinks to boots, making as though to brush off a spare crumb of dust that could topple the entire evening. In his peripheral vision, Thomas can see Lord Grantham watching him in the mirror. He’s seen that look before, on more men than this. 

He starts to tug on the hem of Lord Grantham’s trousers as though straightening their line over their boots, and Lord Grantham tells him, “That really isn’t necessary, Thomas.” But it comes out quieter than usual, and Thomas’ name is strained. 

When Thomas glances at the mirror, Lord Grantham is looking straight at him through it. It’s hard for any man to ignore a human being they practically _own_ kneeling at their feet, and Thomas kneels particularly well. He has it to an art. He arches his back in just the right way, inclines his head in just the right way, leans too close and says in nearly a whisper, “I’m very keen to keep this position, My Lord.” Not _your lordship_ right now, because Thomas wants that ownership stressed. “...Regardless of what happens with Mr. Bates.”

Lord Grantham turns to look at him properly, not through the mirror, frowning. Lord Grantham says softly, “That isn’t really up for debate.” But Thomas doesn’t buy that. 

Thomas puts his hands on Lord Grantham’s boots. It’s the equivalent of cupping a man’s face, but more subservient, more removed—Lord Grantham is a married man. Thomas still looks up through his lashes and purrs, “I’m just saying, My Lord, that I’m very keen to serve you.” It doesn’t have to be as Lord Grantham’s valet—there are other men in the house who don’t share his weakness and Thomas can’t do this to—and Mr. Carson has to retire _sometime._ “After all, I have noticed the way you look at me from time to time—”

“Now, wait just a minute—” Lord Grantham cuts to, face turning red from more than just anger, but Thomas _knows_ those signs and counted them carefully and knows he can’t be wrong, not again—

“—I’m not judging you, My Lord. I just want you to know that I can do certain... things... for you... that Mr. Bates can’t. ...Or that you’d rather come from me...” Not that Thomas would be surprised if Bates were sleeping with the man of the house to keep a position he doesn’t deserve, but that doesn’t matter—Thomas is still _better_. He can see Lord Grantham’s hands clenching at his sides, mouth working, mind ticking away for just how to handle such a bizarre situation. But Thomas doesn’t leave him any room to say no. 

Thomas tilts his head and leans in, presses his lips chastely to the front of Lord Grantham’s crotch. He doesn’t stay long enough to dampen the fabric, and he doesn’t mention the way it starts to tent, straining out to meet him. He looks up at his employer and slowly licks his lips, wanting to make it impossible to resist. 

It doesn’t hurt that Lord Grantham isn’t particularly bad looking. For an older man one must fuck to get ahead, anyway. Thomas has done worse. Thomas can manage this. A part of him is sure, so sure, that this is what valets were invented for—just a rich man’s excuse to take his poor lover around with him from place to place and pay for personal, under-the-table services. He’s seen how these dynamics can turn a man wild, and to a man like Lord Grantham, one with too big a conscience and too much loyalty, it’ll make Thomas invaluable. Irreplaceable. He was already straddling the edge, but being a delightful view for the straying eyes of a conservative lord only took him so far...

Finally, Lord Grantham says, mouth looking dry and laden with the difficulty of the words, “It has been a... a long time since Cora gave me certain... attentions.”

“There are things a man needs,” Thomas coos, “More depraved acts, that shouldn’t be burdened on wives.” His lips curl in a smirk, something he fights to make appear more coy than calculated, “...But that’s what servants are for.”

Lord Grantham takes another look at the mirror. He looks hot around the collar, and his trousers are irrefutably interested.

He stares at Thomas’ body whenever Thomas dresses him. He takes any excuse to brush his hands over Thomas’ when Thomas serves at meals. Thomas has made a show of bending over several times—a dropped spoon here, a misplaced button there—just to catch his lordship staring at his arse. It rings true every time. 

And they both know it. It’s just a matter of Lord Grantham now knowing that Thomas _knows_ , fully intent on using it wisely. 

Lord Grantham slowly nods and concedes, “I suppose you have a point...”

Thomas grins like he’s won the lottery. 

It isn’t cheating, really. It won’t go that far. Thomas’ fingers slide up Lord Grantham’s legs at a turtle’s pace, as though moving any faster will scare him away like a skittish animal. But Lord Grantham stands still and stiff where he is, arms at his sides, hands fidgeting nervously, eyes alternatively fixed down on Thomas’ face and sideways at Thomas’ lithe figure in the reflection. Thomas focuses on his task; fixing all future employment in place. He never wants to worry about his job again in his life, and after this, he won’t have to. 

He carefully undoes the front of Lord Grantham’s trousers. He knows the door is already locked, although being caught in this position, having a witness, would provide considerable blackmail. This should work well enough, to start. He reaches inside Lord Grantham’s pants and extricates a long, fat cock, pulsing happily in his hand. Thomas strokes it once in his long fingers, carefully watching the way Lord Grantham shivers—they’ve officially crossed the line of no-going-back. 

Rich, entitled men like Lord Grantham are so _weak_ at the core. It’s almost too easy. Even if he doesn’t have any inclination towards men at all, having Thomas knelt at his feet, submissively handling his cock, is clearly a powerful aphrodisiac. Thomas keeps that preference in mind as he leans forward and draws his tongue along the side of it, zero hesitation in his movements. He laps a long line down the shaft as though this is all perfectly normal, business as usual; he’d brush his teeth with his employer’s cock every night if it meant a secured, better position and a constant, hefty paycheck. Thomas licks his way back up the underside, then back down on the other side, then lifts up on his knees to coat the top, wetting every angle. Lord Grantham swears softly and takes a step back, hand reaching blindly backwards for the rail of his desk chair. 

Thomas pays no notice, shuffles forward and continues his attentions, now sucking Lord Grantham’s large, hanging balls into his mouth one at a time, suckling tenderly. He keeps his lashes lowered, eyes staring blandly at his lordship’s stomach, because certain parts of this need to be taken slowly. Lord Grantham probably isn’t ready to meet the eyes of a man, not his wife, engulfing his cock. But picturing her ladyship doing this is almost laughable. Even if she could, Thomas is fully confident he can do it better.

Thomas lets Lord Grantham’s sac topple wetly out of his mouth, and he moves back to peck the head, flushed pink and bulbous. A little lick around the slit, and Thomas pops it into his mouth before there’s any time to go back. As soon as he hums, Lord Grantham mutters, “Good Lord,” and thrusts forward. Thomas was ready for it; he opens his mouth wider, as wide as it can go, and takes the thick cock all the way to the back of his throat without a hitch. Then he hollows out his cheeks and _sucks _, and Lord Grantham makes an inhuman noise that translates through Thomas’ head: _you’re so much better than Bates could ever be.___

__Thomas practically smirks around his mouthful. Straight, sheltered men can be just too easy. He sucks again, then again, tilts his head and starts to take Lord Grantham down the back of his throat, pleasuring it along the way with every corner of his mouth. He has to reach for Lord Grantham’s hips and hold them still lest they choke him to death—he does his own thrusting on and off—and Lord Grantham hisses a garbled apology and struggles to stop. Thomas ignores it and hums around the base. When he buries his face in Lord Grantham’s black-grey public hair, he gets a stifling whiff of _man_ , musky and thick, and it makes him nearly dizzy. This isn’t his ideal cock, but it’s still _cock_ , and there’s a part of Thomas that always enjoys taking it, almost as much as giving it. He doesn’t get enough of this. It might benefit him too, having a release not far from his ‘home.’ Other than being a little too old and not controlled enough to resist wildly fucking his face, Lord Grantham is hardly a bad option._ _

__Lord Grantham slips a hand into his hair, and Thomas, taking that as an order, looks up through his lashes. He finds Lord Grantham _staring_ unabashedly at the glass, mouth open and pupils dilated and face overall devouring the sight of Thomas taking his cock. Thomas sucks and bobs up and down like it’s his greatest skill in life. It very well might be. He’s starting to get hard on his own, more from being wanted than anything else, but he doesn’t touch himself, doesn’t do anything to make this a two-way love affair. He keeps it all about pleasuring his master, and when Lord Grantham starts to stroke his hair and tug on the dark strands, Thomas takes it as a personal victory. _ _

__Then Lord Grantham is muttering, “Barrow—Thomas—close—” and he doesn’t have to make sense for Thomas to know. Thomas smirks around the cock in his mouth, looks up and sucks with everything he has. Lord Grantham screams and explodes a second later, bursting against the back of Thomas’ throat in a stream of hot, sticky seed that Thomas immediately sucks down. He swallows every last drop he’s given, even when it’s enough that it threatens to choke him, and he stays clamped on until Lord Grantham is practically swaying on the spot and wilting against Thomas’ tongue._ _

__Only then does Thomas finally slip off. There’s a popping suction noise when the head leaves his mouth, a small string of cum draping to Thomas’ lips, and he quickly licks it away. He gives Lord Grantham a shallow sweep of his tongue, cleaning up. Then he deftly tucks the Earl back in, smoothing over the fabric like nothing ever happened._ _

__He wipes his own lips crudely on his sleeve, knowing now that Mr. Carson’s nitpicking no longer holds any sway over his position. When he gets to his feet, he’s faring better than his master._ _

__He brushes off Lord Grantham’s shoulders again, just for something to do. He purrs, still all seduction and weighted promises, “You look ready for dinner, My Lord.”_ _

__Lord Grantham opens his mouth, says nothing, and then mutters, raking a hand back through his thinning hair, “You’ll always have a place at Downton, Thomas.” It sounds like he’s trying to say, _regardless of this_ , but they both know that isn’t true. _ _

__Thomas suppresses his smirk to a low grin and says, “Thank you, My Lord.” Internally, he’s all pride. He wouldn’t have done it for any other reason._ _

__Lord Grantham takes an uneasy step past him, and Thomas takes a final look in the mirror, feeling like the prized diamond in the rough that he is._ _


End file.
